isn't interviewing for publication, you know. Really, I feel that if
you do know anything, it is your duty to tell it. You can never know
how valuable it may be to the case."
"Of course--if you put it on a high ethical ground, that's different,"
she temporized.
"I do. Listen. A crime has been committed. You have no more right to
hold back one fact that may help to clear it up than you would to
shield the person who committed it, in law, you know."
"You're right. Yes--I'm convinced that it was the case--that she was
merely playing with Vail Wilford, using him to get her freedom from the
doctor, and that she was convinced that all she needed to do was to
set herself to capture Vance Shattuck and he was as good as hers. That
might be true of some men--sometimes," she added, "but Mr. Shattuck is
too--too sophisticated to fall an easy prey to any one. You know, no
woman can pursue him. He is a born pursuer."
She paused a minute and nodded frankly at me. "No woman should trust
him--yet many have. Some day, I really believe, such men always meet a
woman who is more than a game-fish to an angler. Between you and me, I
think Vance Shattuck has met her--and that there is nothing he would
stop at to get her. But Vina is not that woman--nor can she understand.
Yes, you are absolutely right in what you hinted at regarding Vina.
I think you'll do well to watch the Lathrops--but mostly watch Vance
Shattuck. There--I've said more than I intended to say, already. And
remember, this is not a woman's intuition. I've been watching little
things, here and there, and putting what I know together. Now--I've
some more items to add to my column--it's short to-day."
"Really, you ought to be a detective," I thanked her, as I turned from
the desk. "You've helped me a great deal."
"Flatterer," she returned, picking up a galley proof. "Come back again.
If I hear anything more I'll let you know. I like Professor Kennedy."
"Then it's to him you've been talking--not to me?" I asked,
quizzically. "Or am I like John Alden--not speaking enough for myself,
Priscilla?"
"Please--I must read this proof. No--you're not talking for Miles
Standish. Still, I consider you quite harmless. If you don't go now,
I'll make you write the notes to take the place of these turned slugs
in the proof."
I departed in better humor, as I always was after a verbal encounter
with Belle Balcom. More than that, she had given me enough to put some
phases of the case in an entirely new light.
As I hastened back to the laboratory I realized that the scheming of
Vina had given an entirely new twist to the case, one which was beyond
my own subtlety to interpret.
On the way out of the city room I ran into Brooks, whose assignment was
the Police Headquarters.
"Great case your friend Kennedy's on now," he paused to comment, and I
knew that he was hinting for information.
"Yes. By the way," I replied, determined not to give it to him, but to
sound him before he had a chance to do the same to me, "what do you
fellows up at Headquarters know about the Rascon Detective Agency?"
"Rascon?" he answered, quickly, and I could see his mind was working
fast and that if we needed any assistance in hounding that gentleman,
Brooks would give it voluntarily, hoping to get his own story out of
it. "Why, Rascon has a reputation. They say he has pulled some pretty
raw deals. The city force doesn't think much of him, I can tell you. Is
he mixed up in it?"
"Yes--indirectly," I admitted. "I thought perhaps you might keep an eye
on him. There may be a story in him. Only, your word on one thing: Not
a sentence is to go into _The Star_ about him until you've got my O.
K."
"I'll promise. What's he done? He does a good deal of shady business, I
know."
I was not averse to telling Brooks a bit, for I knew I could trust
him. Besides, if the truth is to be told, on a big case it is the
newspaper men who do quite as much of the digging out the facts as the
police do. The most efficient detectives in the world are the newspaper
men--and the regular detectives get a great deal of credit for what the
newspaper men do.
"He has been up to a fine piece of double crossing," I replied. "Now
all I can tell you is that Wilford hired him to watch Mrs. Wilford. He
faked a good deal--meetings with Vance Shattuck and that sort of thing.
She gave up to him to suppress some of the fakes. But--well, I'd like
to know more. Doyle, I think, has the fellow right. Now be careful.
Don't let either of them know I tipped you off--and remember, your
typewriter is broken until I tell you it's all right to go ahead."
"Thanks for the tip, Jameson," said Brooks, as I bustled away. "I'll
look it up--and let you know."
"Have you found anything yet?" I inquired, half an hour later, as I
entered the laboratory and found Kennedy still deeply engaged in the
study of the materials which had been brought over by Doctor Leslie.
As I watched him I saw that he was at work over a quantitative
analysis, rather than searching blindly for something as yet unknown.
"Yes," he replied, frankly, to my surprise, though, on second thought,
I recalled that only when he was in doubt was Kennedy secretive. "I
have. What about you?"
"The hint from Leslie was right," I replied, and as briefly as I could
I repeated what Miss Balcom had told me.
Kennedy listened attentively, and when I had finished merely remarked,
"That explains some things that I haven't cleared up yet."
"Now tell me what you have found," I urged. "I'm very eager to know."
"It was as I thought," he replied, slowly, "when I talked first with
Leslie and Doyle. Wilford was not killed by atropin."
"Then what was it?" I asked, mystified.
"You remember, I found his pupils contracted almost to a pin-point?" he
asked.
"Yes. Was it morphine, as in the cases Doyle cited?"
Craig shook his head. "No, it wasn't morphine, either. I had to go
at it with practically no other hint. However, in this case the
elimination of drugs was comparatively easy. I simply began testing for
all I could recall that had the effect of contracting the pupils of
the eyes. There was one thing that helped very much. The contraction
was so marked in this case that I started off by looking for the drug
which occurred to me next after morphine. I don't claim any uncanny
intelligence for it, either. That part of it was all just pure luck."
"Luck be hanged!" I exclaimed. "It's knowledge, preparedness. Would I
ever have hit on it by luck?"
"Still, I was as much surprised to find it so soon as you are to hear
it."
"I'll concede anything," I hastened. "I'm burning with curiosity. What
was it?"
"Wilford died of physostigmine poisoning," he answered.
I suppose my face wrinkled with disappointment, for Craig laughed
outright. "And--physostigmine--is what?" I inquired, quite willing to
admit my ignorance if by that I might get ahead in understanding the
mystery. "What does it do?"
"It's a drug used by oculists, just as they use atropin, but for the
precisely opposite effect. Atropin dilates the pupils; physostigmine
contracts them. Both are pre-eminent in their respective properties."
"Used by oculists!" I exclaimed, remembering suddenly that Honora
Wilford's father, Honore Chappelle, had been an oculist.
Kennedy apparently did not wish to encourage my quick deduction, for
he paid no attention. "Yes," he repeated, thoughtfully, "it causes a
contraction of the pupils more marked than that produced by any other
drug I know. That was why I tried the test for it first--simply because
it was at the top of the scale, so to speak."
Interested as I was in physostigmine, which, by the way, now came
tripping off my tongue like the name of an old friend, I could not
forget our first acquaintance with the case.
"But what about the atropin in the glass--and in the bottle?" I asked,
hesitatingly.
"I did not say that I had cleared up the case," cautioned Craig. "It is
still a mystery. Atropin has not only the opposite effect on the eye
from physostigmine, but there is a further most unusual fact about the
relationship of these two drugs. This is one of the few cases where we
find drugs mutually antagonistic. And they are antagonistic to a marked
degree in this instance, too."
He paused a moment and I tried to follow him, but was too bewildered
to make an inch of progress. Here was a man killed, we knew, by a drug
which Craig had recognized. Yet in the glass on his desk had been found
unmistakable traces of another drug. Was it an elaborate camouflage?
If so, it seemed to be utterly purposeless, for, even if Kennedy had
not discovered the poison, the veriest tyro at the game must have
done so comparatively soon. I gave it up. I could see no chance that
the atropin might have been put in the glass either to point or to
obscure suspicion. It was too clumsy and a brain clever enough to
have conceived the whole thing would not have fallen into such an
egregious error. It was too easy. But, if the obvious were rejected,
what remained? By the grave look on Kennedy's face I was convinced that
there was a depth of meaning to this apparent contradiction which even
he himself had not fathomed yet.
"Atropin is an antidote to physostigmine," he continued. "Three and a
half times the quantity almost infallibly counteracts the poisonous
dose."
"But," I objected, "there was no trace of physostigmine in either
glass, was there?"
"No," he replied, "the glasses are here. I got them from Doyle's office
while you were away. Not a trace in either. In fact, one of the glasses
is really free from belladonna traces. The physostigmine I discovered
was all in the stomach contents of Wilford--and there is a great deal
of it, too. When you come right down to the point, we've taken a step
forward--that's all. There's a long way to go yet."
"But what of the physostigmine?" I queried. "How do you suppose it was
given?"
He shook his head in doubt. "I made a close examination. There were
no marks on the body such as if a needle had been used. Besides, my
investigations showed that a needle need not have been used. There are
peculiar starch grains in the stomach associated with the poison. I
admit I still have no explanation of that."
For some minutes Kennedy worked along thoughtfully over his analysis,
though I knew that he was merely endeavoring to determine in his own
mind the next important move to make.
"I think I'll vary my custom, in this case," he decided, finally. "I'm
going to announce what I have discovered as I go along. If you tell it
to one you may depend that it will spread to the others eventually. It
will be interesting to see what happens. Often when you do that it's
the quickest way to have the whole truth come out--especially if some
one is trying to conceal it."
There was a tap on the laboratory door and I rose to open it, admitting
Doyle himself, quite excited.
"What's the matter?" greeted Kennedy.
"There's the deuce to pay up at the Wilford apartment," replied Doyle.
"Shattuck called there to see Mrs. Wilford this afternoon and offer her
his sympathy."
I glanced over to Kennedy, who nodded to me. It was evidently the visit
about which we already knew.
"I wasn't there," went on Doyle, "but McCabe was, of course. I don't
know just what happened, but McCabe and Shattuck had some kind of
run-in--Shattuck protested against the way we're holding Mrs. Wilford,
and all that. Some mess!" He shook his head dubiously.
"Why?" prompted Kennedy. "What's the trouble?"
"Trouble enough. Mrs. Wilford's almost in a state of hysteria. When I
tried to smooth things over she ordered me out of the apartment, said
she'd receive whom she pleased and when and where she pleased."
Kennedy scowled. I could well imagine Doyle "smoothing" anything over.
A road-roller would have been tactful by comparison.
"I think she's breaking," he pursued. "I know I'm on the right track.
I thought you might like to know it. If I don't get a confession--say,
I'll eat my shield!"
With difficulty I restrained myself. It was not policy to offend Doyle,
I reasoned.
"Say," pursued Doyle, with a knowing nod, "you remember I found out
that some one had been at that office the night Wilford was murdered?"
"Yes," agreed Kennedy.
"Well--who was it?" demanded Doyle. "Who _must_ it have been? Who
wanted her husband out of the way? Isn't it clear?"
There was no mistake that he implied Honora.
"By the way," interposed Kennedy, "I think I've found the poison that
killed him."
"Belladonna--eh?"
"No. Just the opposite--physostigmine."
Doyle stared. Yet he could not dispute.
"Maybe it was. But it's a poison just the same--ain't it?" he hastened.
Then he added, aggressively, "I know what I'm going to do. I'm going to
put a dictagraph in that place."
Kennedy smiled encouragingly. I knew what his thought was. This was the
height to which Doyle's mind reached.
Yet, I reasoned, perhaps it was not without its value, after all.
IX
THE ASSOCIATION TEST
"I think I ought to visit Mrs. Wilford, after that," decided Kennedy,
the moment Doyle had left. "This case is really resolving itself into a
study of that woman, or rather of her hidden personality."
Accordingly he doffed his acid-stained smock which he wore about the
laboratory, and we set out for the Wilford apartment.
When we arrived we were not surprised to find Honora in a highly
nervous state, really bordering on hysteria, as we had been told by
Doyle. McCabe had taken up a less conspicuous place in which to watch
her, from a neighboring apartment in which he had got himself placed.
As we met her, it actually seemed as if Honora had turned from Doyle
and McCabe to Kennedy.
"Were the dreams I wrote for you all right?" she asked, with a rather
concealed anxiety.
"Perfectly satisfactory," replied Kennedy, reassuringly. "I haven't
finished with them yet. I'll tell you about them later. They were all
right, but I never have enough of them. I suppose Doctor Lathrop used
to say that too?"
She nodded. Evidently Craig had won her confidence, in spite of what
she must have known about us by this time.
"Are there any other dreams that you have thought of since?" he
inquired, pressing his advantage.
She passed her hand over her forehead wearily and did not answer
immediately.
"You look tired," Craig remarked, sympathetically. "Why not rest while
we talk?"
"Thank you," she murmured.
As he spoke, Kennedy had been arranging the pillows on a
_chaise-longue_. When he finished, she sank into them, resting her
head, slightly elevated.
Having discussed the various phases of the psychanalysis before with
Kennedy, I knew that he was placing her at her ease, so that nothing
foreign might distract her from the free association of ideas.
Kennedy placed himself near her head and motioned to me to stand
farther back where she could not see me.
"Avoid all muscular exertion and distraction," he continued. "I want
you to concentrate your attention thoroughly. Tell me anything that
comes into your mind. Tell all you know of your feelings. Concentrate.
Repeat all you think about. Frankly express all the thoughts you have,
even though they may be painful and perhaps embarrassing."
He said this soothingly and she seemed to understand that much depended
upon her answers and the fact that she did not try to force her ideas.
"Tell me--of just what you are thinking," he pursued.
Dreamily she closed her eyes, as though allowing her thoughts to wander.
"I am thinking," she replied, slowly, still with her eyes closed, "of a
time just after Vail and I were married."
She choked back the trace of a sob in her voice.
"It is a dream," she went on. "I seem to be alone, crossing the
fields--it is at the country estate where we spent our honeymoon. I see
a figure ahead of me. It is Vail. But each time that I get close to
him--he has disappeared into the forest that skirts the field."
She stopped.
"Now--I see the figure--a figure--but--it is not Vail--no, it is
another man--I do not know him--with another woman--not myself."
She had opened her eyes as though the day-dream was at an end, but
before she finished the sentence she had deliberately closed them again.
From what I learned of the method of psychanalysis, I recalled that it
was the gaps and hesitations which were considered most important in
arriving at the truth regarding the cause of any nervous trouble.
More than that, as she had said the words, it was easy to read into
her remarks the fact that she knew there had been another woman in
Wilford's life. It had wounded her deeply, in spite of the fact--as
Kennedy had demonstrated by the Freud theory--that she really had not
cared as greatly for Wilford as even she herself had thought.
Even to me it was plain in this day-dream recollection that the man
throughout it was really Vail. She knew it was Vail and she knew that
woman with him was Vina. But in her wish that it should not be so, she
had unconsciously changed the face on the "figure" she saw. It was her
endeavor to preserve what she desired. She had unconsciously striven
not to have it her husband, as it was not herself she saw in the vision
with him.
"Go on," urged Kennedy, gently. "Is there anything else that comes into
your mind?"
"Yes" she murmured, dreamily. "I am thinking about some of Vail's
clients."
"About any of them in particular?" hastened Kennedy, eager to catch the
fleeting thought before she might either lose or conceal it. "About any
one contemplating a suit for divorce?"
"Y-yes," she replied before she realized it, her eyes opening as she
came out of the half-relaxed state again, recalled by the sound of
Kennedy's voice.
"What were you thinking about that person?"
"That he was devoting entirely too much time to that sort of practice,"
she answered, quickly, avoiding a direct reply. "I can remember when
I first knew him that he was in a fair way to be a very successful
corporation lawyer. But the money and the cases seemed to come to
him--the divorce cases, I mean."
Kennedy ignored the last, explanatory part of the remark, as though he
penetrated that it disguised something. He did not wish to put her on
guard.
"Devoting too much time to the practice?" he queried, "or do you mean
you think he was devoting too much time and attention to the particular
client?"
Honora was thoroughly on guard now, in spite of him. Had she known, she
probably would never have allowed herself to be led along until Kennedy
struck on such an important "complex." But, quite evidently, she knew
nothing of the Freud theory and trusted that her own control of herself
was sufficient. And, indeed, it would have been had it not been that
the dreams betrayed so much, that even she did not realize, to one who
understood the theory. She did not answer.
"Who is it that you were thinking about?" persisted Craig, refusing to
be turned aside.
"Oh, no one in particular," she replied, quickly, with a petulant
little shrug.
Yet it was plain now that she had been thinking of some one, both in
the last remarks and perhaps in the day-dreams she had repeated. She
was now trying to hide the name from us.
By this time, also, Honora was sitting bolt-up-right on the
_chaise-longue_, staring straight at Kennedy, as though amazed at her
own frankness and a bit afraid of what it had led her into.
"Was it Vina Lathrop?" he asked, suddenly.
"No--no!" she denied, emphatically.
Yet to me it was evident that it most certainly had been Vina whom she
had in mind. The association test of the waking state quite accorded
with the results of the dream study which Kennedy had made.
Moreover, it was now evident that Honora was holding back something,
that she had taken refuge in silence. Vainly Kennedy now strove to
restore the relaxed condition, in which she might let her thoughts
wander at will. It was of no use. She simply would not let herself go.
Deftly he changed his tactics altogether and the conversation drifted
off quickly to inconsequential topics, such as would restore any shaken
confidence in him. Clearly it was too early to come to an open break
with her. Besides, I understood, Kennedy would rather have allowed her
to believe that she had come off victor than to have pressed any minor
advantage.
"Please don't repeat this," he remarked, as we were leaving. "You can
readily understand the reason. I quite appreciate the uncomfortable
position in which the city detectives have placed you, Mrs. Wilford.
Depend on me, I shall use every influence I have with them to mitigate
the hardship of their presence. Besides, I know how brutally annoying
they can be. You understand--my position is quite different. And if I
can be of any assistance to you, no matter in what way, don't fail to
command me."
I had expected her to be a bit put out by our continued quizzing. On
the contrary, however, she seemed to be actually grateful for Kennedy's
sympathy, now that he had ceased treading upon dangerous ground.
"Thank you," she sighed, as we rose to leave her. "I feel that you are
always trying to be fair to me."
Kennedy hastened to assure her that we were, and we left before the
final good impression could be destroyed.
"I consider you an artist, Craig," I complimented, as we left the
elevator a few minutes later, after a brief talk with McCabe in
which Kennedy urged him to keep a close watch, but to seem not to be
watching. "We go to cross-examine; we leave, friends. But I don't yet
understand what the idea was of trying the association test on her."
"Couldn't you see that when we came there she was in a state verging
on hysteria?" he replied. "No doubt, if McCabe had stayed she would
have been quite over the verge, too. But it would not have done them
any good. They always think that if any one 'blows up,' as they call
it, they'll learn the truth. That's not the case with a woman as clever
as Honora. If she gave way to hysteria, she would be infinitely more
likely to mislead them than to lead them. Besides, in the study of
hysteria a good deal of what we used to think and practise is out of
date now."
I nodded encouragingly, not so much that I cared about the subject of
hysteria, either what was known of it now or long ago, as that I was
deeply interested in anything whatever that might advance the case.
"Perhaps," he went on, "you are not aware of the fact that Freud's
contribution to the study of hysteria and even to insanity is really
of greater scientific value than his theories of dreams, taken by
themselves. Study of Freud, as you can see, has led us already to a
better understanding of this very case."
"But what sort of condition did you think her in before you reassured
her at the start by the association test?"
Kennedy thought a moment. "Here is, I feel, what is known as one of
the so-called 'borderline cases,'" he answered, slowly. "It is clearly
a case of hysteria--not the hysteria one hears spoken of commonly as
such, but the condition which scientists to-day know as such.
"By psychanalytical study of one sort or another we may trace the
impulse from which hysterical conditions arise, penetrate the disguises
which these repressed impulses or wishes must assume in order to appear
in the consciousness. Such transformed impulses are found in normal
people, too, sometimes. The hysteric suffers mostly from reminiscences
which, paradoxically, may be completely forgotten.
"Thus, obsessions and phobias have their origin, according to Freud, in
sexual life. The obsession represents a compensation, a substitute for
an unbearable sex idea, and takes its place in consciousness."
"That is," I supplied, "in this case you mean that her husband's lack
of interest in her was such an unbearable idea to her that in her mind
she tried to substitute something to take its place?"
"Precisely. In normal sex life, as you recall, the Freudists say that
no neurosis is possible. Also recall what I said, that sex is one of
the strongest of impulses, yet subject to the greatest repression--and
hence is the weakest point in our cultural development. Often sex
wishes may be consciously rejected, but unconsciously accepted.
Well, now--hysteria arises through the conflict between libido--the
uncontrollable desire--and sex repression. So, when they are
understood, every hysterical utterance has a reason back of it. Do you
catch the idea? There is really method in madness, after all.